Nikki was shivering violently, teeth banging together as she returned to the locker room. Retrieving her clothes, she carried them to one of the small dressing rooms. Within the limited privacy provided by a blue canvas curtain, she slammed her palm against the wall, and took big gulping breaths. Her heart was racing.
“Get control,” she told herself.
It wasn’t over yet. She couldn’t afford to fall apart now.
Her skin prickled with the cold, underpants and bra damp as she pulled her trousers and shirt and socks back on.
—
The gate guard handed her the phone on her way out. There were several text messages from Phoenix Seven—beginning withWhere the fuck are you?and ending withI’m telling Angelo.
Angelo called after that—then four more times—voice messages informing her she was fired.
Nikki felt cold and detached. She didn’t return the call.
—
It was dark by the time Nikki climbed back on her Hornet, Federico hefting himself behind her. He hadn’t spoken since leaving De Rosa, and he remained silent as Nikki made adjustments and started the engine.
She saw the struggle in him—loyalty and fear for Valerio wrestling against his terror. He hadn’t wanted to speak with De Rosa. Nor did he want to follow where they were going next. Yet here he was.
Nikki felt his discomfort and resistance in the rigidness of his body as he sat upright behind her, tension turning his arms into blocks of wood.
“This is suicide,” he muttered, as Nikki navigated the Hornet onto the empty road, De Rosa following on his Ducati.
—
Federico directed Nikki towards the Tangenziale and they traveled north, turning off at Lago Patria and heading northeast through Aversa, towards the mountains of Caserta. The world vanished around them, until reality existed only in the patches of yellow headlamps and the uneven smatters of distant houselights. Federico led them onto increasingly rural roads, up into the mountainside.
—
Nikki felt sure they must be getting close when De Rosa flashed his lights and passed them. She fell in behind and followed him for another kilometer, when he exited onto a dirt road and into the shelter of thick trees. He switched off his bike, and removed his helmet.
Nikki followed suit.
“Who did you bring with you?” he demanded, striding towards her. His gun was out, pointed at the ground.
Nikki looked around.
Without the engine sounds, or the bright illumination of the headlamps, it was suddenly very dark. Quiet.
“Nobody,” she said. “What do you mean?”
“A grey Škoda has been following us since Arco Felice. He isn’t one of mine.”
Then they heard it: the rumble of an engine. Through the trees behind them came the jostling light of an approaching vehicle.
“If you have a weapon, prepare yourself,” said De Rosa.
But Nikki wasn’t armed.
She and Federico moved rapidly off the road, taking cover in the trees as the car came into view.
The night was torn wide by the double report of a weapon—the first shot disabling the tire, the second striking the windshield. The car swerved and braked, and began to reverse, but De Rosa was in the headlights, and took aim, firing a single shot.
The windshield shattered. The car slowly rolled backwards, stopping when it hit a tree.
De Rosa moved rapidly in, and opened the door, aiming his weapon at the driver.
